IV

[The poet. What is his name. It doesn’t matter (alias TBA/TBD), this is obviously based on a real poet, thinly veiled, just short of plagiarism. His work will be published posthumously. Which then begs the question, why write. Who was his audience. Himself. Very briefly he was a writer for his college paper. His widow finds his vast collection of poems, years after his death when she is clearing out his actuarial files. Possible to be the hermit, the wisened sage in the cave, the philosopher fool in the middle of a metropolis. Cities are inhabited by nothing but poets. The poetics we live and sustain ourselves by. Yes, absolutely. The senses and the emotions dampened. Incurring damage, a low level kind of shell shock. He is an actuarial/insurance man. It’s taken him 40 plus years to reach this level of optimally comfortable complacency. Every facet of his life a comfortable routine, devoting his waking thoughts to the themes of his poems. All surface things. The phenomenal, phenomonist. The reality beyond human perception. Beyond suffering and happiness. The steps of his day. His mind is already at the office, before he even steps beyond the front awning of his apartment. The perpetual to-do-list. The three must-do items for the day and the endless list of back burner projects. Overcast, did the radio say rain or did Martha mention the chance of rain. What happened to Summer? Two weeks in Los Angeles visiting Martha’s sister in San Francisco. He would’ve rather stayed home, writing and reading. He should probably turn back and grab and umbrella, but his mind is already at the office. Down the block and the left on eighth avenue and into the fray of the morning legions, put on his blinders and find his caravan to the station. It’s all auto-pilot from here, although he still imagines getting distracted, by who knows what an errant updraft buoying a skirt or some theater bill, and before he knows it he’s tripped on the pavement and is trampled to death by the capitalist hordes. He thinks, curl up into a tight ball like he learned from summers on the farm, protect your head from the hooves. Where did summer go and now autumn and nothing but gray seamless skies to match the granite spires and the pale gum-stippled ground. Need to find Sarah a present. When’s her birthday again? October 23? No, that’s Martha’s June 23? He should ask Martha and write it down in his moleskin.
What is it at the office that makes him write a poem that is a memento mori as an ode to joy.